Run, Hero, Run
by Random Equinox
Summary: No one likes boring, grind-type side quests.  Heroes, villains, everyone else-they all hate them.  The difference lies in how they handle it.  This is how one particular hero  tried to  cope.


**Run, Hero, Run**

_Author's Note: This takes place in the same universe as Accidental Hero of the Galaxy, but could easily be applicable to any other Mass Effect fanfic. It was inspired by a one-shot titled "Bug Hunt" by Chris Cook, which I ran across several years ago._

_My thanks to another "Chris," Chris Dee, for helping to brainstorm a few inconveniences to throw Shepard's way._

* * *

"Oh crap!"

I bolted down the stairs as fast as I could. Which, given the number of situations I've run into, is pretty darn fast.

I slapped the door controls as I approached it... and then ran right into the damn door because it didn't open in time. Waited impatiently for the door to open, literally bouncing on my feet. Which was a mistake, in retrospect, given how it exacerbated the headache I was already nursing when my skull hit the door. Finally, the door finally deigned to cooperate and open up, and I put the proverbial pedal to the metal.

"Hey!"

"Sorry!"

Oops. Almost ran over some matronly looking lady. Well dressed. Maybe one of those Alliance negotiators? Or some lady with an overabundance of wealth. Wouldn't be a surprise, really. Those kinds of people keep popping up like flies every way you turn.

Speaking of turning...

I took a sharp right at the VI terminal, ignoring Avina's polite automated request to tell me everything the public was allowed to learn about the Citadel, the Council, the Spectres and C-Sec. Minus any forays into embarrassing topics. Next stop: rapid transit terminal...

*This rapid transit terminal is closed for routine maintenance. We apologize for any inconvience.*

...or not.

"Oh for crying out loud!"

I left as rapidly as I had arrived, ignoring the various looks I received from that outburst (offended looks from tightwads who somehow thought I had uttered an ear-blistering cuss or two, sympathetic looks from people who had similar reactions, and confused looks from the oblivious sleepwalkers who hadn't been inconvenienced yet).

Okay, I thought. Calm down, Shepard. You just need to get to the next rapid transit terminal. It's isn't too far from here. Especially at a run.

Well, it took less than a minute to make it there at a run. And less than a second to see that I wouldn't be hitching a ride any time soon.

There was a big crowd right smack in front of it. As far as I could tell, one of those damn hanar evangelists was preaching. Yet another spiel on how everyone should call Protheans "the Enkindlers" and worship them, because they supposedly taught the hanar how to speak. I guess even genius races can make screw-ups every once in a while.

As I left to try my luck with yet another terminal, I contacted Joker.

"What's up, Commander," he said cheerfully.

"Prep the Normandy for emergency departure as soon as I get onboard."

"Uh... okay, but why—"

"Just _DO_ it!" I ordered.

"Okay, okay. Sheesh."

Joker turned off the comm just as I reached the next terminal. Which I managed to get on, to my mild surprise.

Of course, the only free seat was behind a high school band of nitwits. Thirty-eight of them, half of whom spent the time giggling over some dreamy guy who thought lots of facial makeup and taking off his shirt made him a bonafide actor. The other half entertained themselves by enthusiastically butchering the Alliance national anthem with their instruments. I was relieved to finally arrive at my chosen destination—C-Sec—and hurled myself through the doors...

...only to see that the line-ups at Customs were three times as long as usual. Normally that's not a big deal. One of the little-known perks of being a Spectre—you don't have to line up. Unfortunately, you still have to wade through any crowd situated between you and the damn elevators. And today, the crowd was a doozy.

As I struggled, weaved, dodged and shoved my way through, I pieced together enough conversations to figure out how this foul-up occurred. First, a family was trying to board a passenger liner. A family consisting of two harried parents, a gaggle of screaming kids and an absent-minded grandma who couldn't remember where every other item was stored.

Second, some big-honking celebrity was trying to get onto the Citadel, but got stuck. Specifically, her luggage got wedged into the elevator doors, which effectively put that particular elevator out of commission. Her shrill screeching, which I'm sure was intended to expedite a resolution to that incident, only served to draw a crowd of slack-jawed gawkers. And paparazzi, of course.

And then there was that asshole who brought things to a grinding halt with the words: "Geez, are you guys trying to meet your quota? You'd think I was carrying a bomb or something!"

I'm almost sure that I could shoot one of those nitwits and receive nothing less than thunderous applause from the throngs of thoroughly inconvenienced civvies.

Finally, I made it into the elevators. I activated the controls to take me to the docking bay. As the elevator car started to move, I entertained the frightful notion that it would stop halfway, trapping me in limbo. That would make perfect sense, given my luck so far.

Instead, I had to suffer through another painfully slow elevator ride, made all the more excruciating by that banefully cheerful announcer telling me that Emily Wong had an upcoming report regarding organized crime on the Citadel. I wasn't sure how it could be declared an "upcoming report", given that I heard that announcement the last time I was on the Citadel—which was a month ago. And the time before that. And the time before that. Seriously, was someone too lazy to update their announcements, or was it that slow a news day?

Eventually, I emerged onto Dock 422, where I sprinted the fifty metres separating me from the Normandy. I ran towards the airlock, and had a near heart-attack when the airlock doors did not open at first. That would be the final insult: making it all the way here, only to be trapped outside my own ship.

After a few agonizing seconds, the airlock hissed open and I stumbled in.

As the decontamination beams swept over me, and I felt the thrum of the Normandy's engines powering up, I allowed myself to bend over and catch my breath.

I had made it. I was safe.

Or so I thought.

* * *

"Yeesh, Commander, what's the big emergency?"

That was Joker. Also known as Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau. Best pilot I'd ever met, but he had this mouth that occasionally wouldn't stop. Luckily for him, I could handle it. Besides, it was a fair question.

"_He _was there."

"Who is 'he'? And where is 'there'?"

"Hackett. In Udina's office."

"Admiral Hackett? Admiral Steven Hackett? Commanding officer of the Fifth Fleet Admiral Hackett?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Wait a minute... let me get this straight..." I watched with some dismay, and, I must admit, some understanding, as a look of amusement spread over Joker's face.

"You called me on your personal comm frequency—your _Spectre command priority override _comm frequency—_ordering _me to prep the Normandy for an emergency launch as soon as you came on board. Which you did at a sprint—Don't deny it, Commander: I saw the whole thing from the external vid-cams—to avoid a chat with Admiral Hackett?"

"Well, yeah. You know how many times he's called me out of the blue for some random missions? Not that I would mind under normal circumstances," I hastily added, suddenly aware how this uncharacteristic honesty could affect my reputation. "I'm still part of the Alliance, and he did recommend me to become the first human Spectre. It's just that, well, I do have this other mission. Rogue Spectre. Threat to humanity and every other race in Citadel space. No biggie, really. Just something I really oughta think about tackling one of these days." 

Joker smirked. "See, that's why you're a Lieutenant Commander and a Spectre. So you can face all this crap and leave us lowly Flight Lieutenants out of it."

"And a damn fine Lieutenant you are," I said sweetly. "You know, those performance evaluations are coming up. And I was thinking of recommending you for a promotion."

"Ah, no, no, that's all right," Joker quickly replied. "Not that I don't deserve it. It's about time the brass recognized my worth. But I wouldn't want to go through all the pomp and ceremony. Have to shave this baby off, and all that. You understand, right?"

"I dunno. Sounded like you were bucking for a promotion just now," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Um. Right. Gotcha, sir. Shutting up now, sir."

"Glad to hear it. Well, if there's nothing more, I gotta go."

"All right, see ya," Joker said absently.

Breathing a sigh of relief that I'd escaped yet another "request" from my superior officer, I headed for one of the stairwells at the end of the command deck. I was looking forward to kicking back and relaxing in my quarters.

Naturally, I was a few steps away from the stairs when Joker's voice came in.

"Message coming in. Patching it through."

I activated my comm, a sinking feeling growing in my stomach.

"Shepard, this is Admiral Hackett. We've got a situation here, and you're the only one who can handle it."

...

"GODDAMNIT!"

...

"Excuse me, Shepard?"


End file.
